I
had a dream. At least I think it was a dream
I remembered it when I woke up the other morning, but I
can’t remember whether it was a dream, something I heard
snoozing through council, or maybe
something read somewhere.
Council
for the Resort Principality of Whistler had debated and unanimously — now
there’s a surefire sign this was probably a dream — passed a new by-law. It
read, in part:
WHEREAS
Whistler is peopled
largely by thrill-seeking, athletic, hedonistic, transient youths, especially
those who have lived here long enough to grow older without noticing; and,
WHEREAS
Visitors
to Whistler go out of their way to engage in activities they wouldn’t even
think of doing at home and for which they have neither the skills nor the
requisite degree of physical fitness; and,
WHEREAS
many of the people
described above — particularly in paragraph II — live under the delusion that
any harm visited upon them must be somebody else’s fault; and,
WHEREAS
there are too damn many
lawyers in the world, particularly the USofA, particularly who work on a
contingency basis and advertise on tasteless billboards along the Interstate
that say: “BEEN HURT?
SUE THE
BASTARDS!”, and;
WHEREAS
everyone
operating a tourist-oriented business in Whistler is offering the chance to
engage in an activity potentially harmful to the participants mental, physical
or economic health,
IT
IS HEREBY PROCLAIMED
that Whistler is an inherently risky resort municipality. All people living in
or entering the boundaries of Whistler hereby assume all risks arising out of
any and all activities engaged in by themselves or others for the duration of
their stay, or the amount of time it takes them to just pass through town.
At
both ends of the resort boundaries, large signs were erected on Highway 99, one
after another, each carrying one of the Whereases and the Hereby Proclaimed.
And, like shrink wrapping on software, the final sign in the series stated that
by passing it, you agreed to be bound by the terms and conditions outlined,
otherwise, you should turn around immediately and seek another internationally
famous resort municipality at which to spend your leisure.
Overnight,
the conduct of business in Whistler was transformed. Thousands cheered, lawyers
wept. Releases of Liability became obsolete and people were able to engage in
outrageously dangerous activities like nude rollerblading, skiing without
sunscreen, warp-speed mountain bike descents, shinnying up artificial climbing
walls erected right next to real rocks, eating double scoops of full-fat ice
cream, having unprotected sex and getting so drunk their pores sweated tequila,
all without ever signing a Release of Liability or once hearing the word
waiver, except as it related to their courage.
The
few, the twisted, the unrepentant who left our happy mountain home lame or
crippled, were laughed out of court by unmoved judges and juries.
“Don’t be a sap. You waived your right
to sue when you entered Whistler. You knew white-water bungee surfing was
dangerous. Now drag your sorry butt out of court and have a nice day,” read one
not uncommon verdict.
Later
in the day, I realized it all had to be a dream. I went into the Village for
lunch, wandered lost into a restaurant I didn’t recognize and ordered a Caesar
salad. After taking my order, the waitress returned with a glass of water and a
Release of Liability.
It informed
me Caesar salad contained inherent risks, including but not limited to
potential microbial poisoning from raw egg contained in the dressing, anchovy
bones that could stick in my throat and choke me, and croutons — possibly left
over from the Mulroney years— so dry I ran the risk of dehydrating while eating
them.
Having
lived here long enough to be used to such documents, I didn’t bother to read
the fine print. “No Fear, man,” I muttered. “Extreme Lunch,” another thrill
seeker in the next booth piped in, flashing me the thumbs up, testosterone-high
sign. Feeling bad to the bone, I dug in. Several bites later, I plunged the
fork through my cheek when my attention was briskly diverted by a visiting
celebrity desperately seeking a public washroom. Stanching the blood with my
serviette, I glanced quickly at the Release to see if it said anything about
self-inflicted utensil wounds. It did. In fact it specifically mentioned impalement
with a fork when distracted by a celebrity, both current and fading.
Signing
waivers in Whistler is not unusual. Locals can often be heard to say, “A day
without a waiver is like a day without variable visibility,” or words to that
effect. It’s not that we like signing waivers or forcing our beloved visitors
to ponder, even briefly, their own mortality as they sign them. It’s just that
we
have no real choice in
the matter and neither do they. Risking, on the one hand, the potential for
serious bodily harm and, on the other, the immediate and unremitting ridicule
of their teenage children whose bright idea it was to go heli-skydiving in the
first place, thrill-seekers sign on our dotted line.
The
lawyers make us do it. So do the insurance carriers. And, of course, they both
blame people who bring frivolous lawsuits, people who are only doing what their
lawyers have recommended in the first place. As the numbers of lawyers has
risen from about 1 per 1,300 Canadians 20 years ago to 1 per 300 today (one per
poker game in the USofA), it has been harder and harder for all of them to find
honest legal work. Around 1983, lawyers became so numerous they started to eat
their young and the heretofore — a legal word — obscure field of legal
malpractice suits skyrocketed as lawyer turned on lawyer.
The
more lawyers multiplied, the more bizarre things they found to sue for. As
defensive measures, things like warnings and waivers became every day
distractions. The Halloween after the movie Batman came out, there was a Batman
costume on the market. Its box carried a warning, I’m not making this up, that
read:
“Caution. Cape does not
allow wearer to fly.”
Now,
I used to be a child.
And more
than anything, I wanted to fly.
I
still have the scars to prove it. But no matter how badly I wanted to fly, I
knew the towel tied around my neck wasn’t the key to escaping gravity. It just
made me look cool. No, a warning like that can only be aimed at a parent or a
lawyer looking for someone to sue because they can’t believe their kid or
client was dumb enough to jump off the garage roof.
I’m
pretty sure we’ve gone too far down the path of righteous litigation to turn
back now.
But council might want
to consider — on environmental grounds if nothing else — a blanket Whistler
Resort Liability Waiver.
Life
could be a dream...sha-boom.
Editor’s
Note — G.D. Maxwell is currently on assignment on Ski La Vie. Check out
his online blog at www.piquenewsmagazine.com. He will return with a new column
next week.